The Margaret Kerr Series: A Trust Betrayed, The Fire in the Flint, and A Cruel Courtship

By Candace Robb

Three novels about a woman’s search for truth amid the Scottish struggle for independence by an author who “puts the history back into historical mystery” (Kirkus Reviews).

This volume includes three novels of mystery and intrigue in thirteenth-century Scotland from the acclaimed author of the Owen Archer series:
 
In A Trust Betrayed, Margaret Kerr searches for her missing husband after his disappearance in Edinburgh, but finds that the simmering rebellion has turned the ruined city into a web of lies and hidden motives that threaten anyone who digs too deep for the truth.

In The Fire in the Flint, Margaret and her family become the target of a series of violent raids, but what the raiders are looking for remains a mystery. As Margaret becomes more deeply involved in the rebellion, attention turns to her mother, a seer who has had visions of the “true king of Scotland.”

In A Cruel Courtship, Margaret heads to Stirling Castle on a mission to discover the fate of a young spy for the rebellion. As her travels bring her closer to the castle, however, she begins to have dreams—or are they visions?—of impending danger. The historic battle of Stirling Bridge is nearing, and the fate of Scotland rides on the outcome…

Praise for the Margaret Kerr novels:
“With meticulous attention to historical details, from the soup Margaret eats to her characters’ plaid clothing and the language they speak (there’s a helpful glossary), the author lovingly re-creates medieval Edinburgh.”—Publishers Weekly
 
“Robb’s captivating blend of history and mystery vividly evokes medieval Scotland.”—Booklist
 
“A satisfying read, full of interesting detail about the life and times in Scotland in the 13th century.”—Aberdeen Press & Journal 

Together, these stories offer a richly detailed and beautifully written account of medieval Scotland and a young woman’s awakening.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 9, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682300428

Candace Robb

Candace Robb has read and researched medieval history for many years, having studied for a Ph.D. in Medieval & Anglo-Saxon Literature. She divides her time between Seattle and the UK, frequently visiting York to research the series. She is the author of eleven previous Owen Archer mysteries and three Kate Clifford medieval mysteries.

Book preview

The Margaret Kerr Series

A Trust Betrayed

The Fire in the Flint

A Cruel Courtship

Candace Robb

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 2000 by Candace Robb

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email [e-mail]

First Diversion Books edition August 2015

ISBN: 978-1-68230-042-8

Also by Candace Robb

The Owen Archer Series

The Apothecary Rose

The Lady Chapel

The Nun’s Tale

The King’s Bishop

The Riddle of St. Leonard’s

A Gift of Sanctuary

A Spy for the Redeemer

The Guilt of Innocents

A Vigil of Spies

ATrustBetrayed

A Trust Betrayed

The Margaret Kerr Series: Book One

Candace Robb

Copyright

Diversion Books

A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

New York, NY 10016

www.DiversionBooks.com

Copyright © 2000 by Candace Robb

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

For more information, email [e-mail]

First Diversion Books edition August 2015

ISBN: 978-1-68230-005-3

In memory of Nigel Tranter, who invited me to tea and inspired me to walk with my muse.

Acknowledgements

Elizabeth Ewan has been so generous with her expertise and time, enthusiastically helping me create and recreate the world of Margaret Kerr. No question regarding Scottish history and culture was too quibbling. Her suggestions have made it all the richer. My friend Joyce Gibb has been a patient, calming and encouraging sounding board and reader, working miracles with tight deadlines. Kate Elton did a wonderfully provocative final emotive edit.

Claudia Noyes advised me on vertical looms and card weaving, even giving me hands-on experience with the latter—it is much more difficult than it looks. Alan Young provided me with a balanced bibliography for the Wars of Independence. Brian Moffat spent a cold, blustery Easter Monday atop Soutra Hill sharing his knowledge of the great medieval hospital with my husband and me. And Charles Robb has made good use of our explorations to provide the maps. As ever, I’m grateful to my colleagues and friends on Chaucernet and Medfem and all who participate in the annual International Congress of Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo.

And my especial thanks to Lynne Drew, Sara Ann Freed, Evan Marshall and Patrick Walsh for their wisdom and encouragement, and for believing in Margaret when she was just an idea.

Historical Note

Scotland and the Scots have been the subjects of so many popular tales that readers often come to works about them with set ideas—which may be contrary to the people and the country depicted in A Trust Betrayed. I mention plaids, but no clan tartans—they had not been formalised at this time. Also, although I pepper the speech of my characters with some Scots words, I do it with a light touch. Scots lowland speech was much closer to that of northern England in the late 13th century than some might expect, and the majority of the lowland Scots could not understand the Gaelic of the highlanders.

Nor were the Wars of Independence a simple two way battle, Scots vs. English, at this point. To explain the complication I must go back to the death of the Maid of Norway, the last member in the direct line of kings of Scotland from Malcolm Canmore. After her death, two major claimants arose—John Balliol and Robert Bruce, but eventually ten additional claimants stepped forward. In an effort to prevent civil war, the Scots asked King Edward of England to act as judge. In hindsight, they were tragically unwise to trust Edward, who had already proved his ruthlessness in Wales. Edward chose John Balliol as king, and then proceeded to make a puppet of him, which is somewhat puzzling considering the powerful Comyn family to which Balliol was connected by his sister’s marriage.

Robert Bruce, known as ‘the Competitor’ to distinguish him from his son Robert and his grandson Robert, still seething under the lost opportunity, handed over his earldom to his son, who was more an Englishman at heart than a Scotsman. He in turn handed over the earldom to his son, who would eventually become King Robert I. Through the 1290s this younger Bruce, Earl of Carrick—the Robert Bruce who appears in this novel—vacillated between supporting and opposing Edward. When he at last resolved to stand against Edward, he was not doing so in support of John Balliol, but was pursuing his own interests.

As for William Wallace, he was in 1297 and thereafter fighting for the return of John Balliol to the throne. He was never a supporter of Robert Bruce.

The reader might at first be puzzled by the small size of Edinburgh in 1297. Until the siege of the town of Berwick, it had been the jewel in the Scots crown. Edinburgh did not come into its own until the 14th century, and largely because of the fate of Berwick. At the time of this tale what is now call the Old Town was all that existed of Edinburgh, and truly just the bare bones of that.

The Bishop of St Andrews was essentially the head of the Church in Scotland: there were no archbishoprics in Scotland.

The treachery of Adam, Abbot of Holyrood, is fact, though the particulars in this tale are speculation.

Scotswomen did not take their husband’s family name, so a woman would be known by her own family name, the exception being when she was widowed. Then her status was marked by her late husband’s surname, as in ‘Widow Sinclair’.

Glossary

arles: when two people strike a bargain in goods or services, the purchaser gives arles, a money payment to show that she is in good faith

backland: the part of a burgh plot that stretches behind the main house

bowyer: one who makes bows for archers

brewster: a woman who brews ale

canon: in some religious orders, including the Augustinian order, the priests were called canons; Holyrood and Soutra were Augustinian houses

card weaving: also called tablet weaving, an ancient technique for weaving bands that predates loom weaving. A set of cards with four holes are threaded for the warp, each hole in each card carrying a single warp thread; the space between these holes creates the shed. As the cards are turned one-quarter, individually or in clusters, new threads are brought to the surface making the pattern. The warps twist, or twine around the weft, completely covering it. The cards are often made of bone or wood.

close: a pathway between burgh properties larger than an alley but not public (see ‘wynd’)

cruisie: an oil lamp with a rush wick

Edward Longshanks: King Edward I was long-legged, hence the nickname

factor: one who buys and sells for another person; a mercantile agent; a commission merchant

flyting: scolding

gate: street

gey: very

gooddaughter: daughter-in-law

goodmother: mother-in-law

kirtle: a gown laced at the bodice that served as an undergarment

lugs: ears

lyke: corpse

lykewake: the watch over the corpse

merrills: a popular board game with a board containing holes and pegs that the players moved in the manner of tic-tac-toe or noughts and crosses

Pater Noster beads: rosary beads

pattens: wooden platforms attached to shoes for walking in mud

plaid: vari-coloured wool cloth, precursor to the tartan but linked to an area only by the dyes available to weavers

port: gate

queyn: girl

Ragman Rolls: an oath of fealty to Edward I signed by Scots, dated 28 September 1296, Berwick

scarlett: the finest cloth, not necessarily red in colour

scrip: a small bag, wallet, or satchel

siller: money (from ‘silver’)

smiddie: smithy

trencher: a thick slice of brown bread a few days old with a slight hollow in the centre, used as a platter

tron: the marketplace weigh beam for weighing goods

wean: baby

wynd: a more public alley between burgh properties than a close

Trust_Betrayed_map_page1Trust_Betrayed_map_page2

1

A Wake and a Burial

Dunfermline, 26 April 1297

Sleet drummed against the parchment window beside the door. Logs sizzled and popped in the fire circle. A water jug stood ready for dousing embers that might fly outside the ring of stones. After devoting so many hours to the altar cloth neither woman wished to chance any damage. The firelight picked out the colours on the long linen draped across the women’s laps, a paschal lamb sitting at the foot of a crucifix, a crown of thorns in the grass beside him. Margaret leaned away from the fire, towards the oil lamp on a small table at her side, preferring its steady light for the fine needlework. Now and again she glanced up at Katherine, smiled unsteadily if she caught her goodmother’s eye, then bent back over her work. Katherine did likewise. Each forced a brave face for the other. Each saw the questions, the sorrow, the fear in the other’s eyes.

Roger Sinclair—Margaret’s husband, Katherine’s son—had been gone more than five months. And now his cousin Jack, who had departed in search of Roger three weeks past, had been brought home in a shroud.

Margaret pricked her finger for the third time and judged it best to put her work aside before she stained it with her blood. She cut her thread and tucked her needle into a cloth in the basket at her side. Rising, she sucked at the puncture as she opened the street door, stepped out into the chill, wet evening, lifting her face and spreading her arms to the icy drizzle.

‘The draught, gooddaughter,’ Katherine said.

Margaret stepped back over the threshold, shut the door. ‘It is so warm by the fire I cannot breathe.’

The unhealthy flush of her goodmother’s face made Margaret feel even hotter. Nor could Katherine mask her sweaty odour despite all the lavender water she wore.

‘My old bones enjoy heat.’

Old bones. Katherine would not have said that before Roger disappeared. She had aged in his absence. And today she had received another blow with the news of Jack’s death. It was more than the loss of a nephew—Katherine had raised him as a second son.

Margaret resumed her seat, taking care not to wrinkle the cloth as she lifted it. She considered Katherine’s fleshy body—her goodmother indulged excessively in food as well as heat—and judged her shoulders more rounded than they had been the past summer, the joints on her hands more knobbly. Perhaps there was more grey in her brows.

‘You are not old.’

‘I ken my own body, lass.’ Katherine did not look up.

Margaret picked up her basket as if to take up her needle again, but she could not sit still. ‘I’ll sit the lykewake this evening.’

‘It is over cold in that hut,’ Katherine protested. ‘I lasted but a few short prayers—me, with all this flesh protecting my bones from the cold. And you are so much thinner.’ She shook her head at Margaret. ‘I cannot allow it. What would Roger say if you lost fingers or toes keeping vigil over his cousin?’

What would Roger think? Margaret could not guess. Out of their two years of marriage she could count on one hand how many months he had been home. She hardly knew him any better than she had at their betrothal. Before her marriage she had dreamed of their life together—she would share in the concerns of his shipping business, entertain the prominent burgesses of Perth, bear children, run an efficient household, comfort Roger and the young ones through their illnesses. Instead, she was commonly alone, the burgesses gossiped about her husband’s long absences, and as for children, there were none—they had little chance of being conceived. She did not know which possibility was more frightening—that Roger was caught up in the fighting against the English king, perhaps lying injured somewhere, or that he was away from her this long while by choice.

And since learning of Jack’s violent death an even greater fear gripped her—that Jack had been killed because he was searching for Roger, which meant her husband was in danger.

Katherine moved from fretting about Margaret to reassuring her. ‘Celia is out there, ready to affright any evil spirits with candles.’ Celia was Katherine’s maid.

‘A member of the family should keep the lykewake,’ Margaret said.

She regretted her words when she saw Katherine’s small frown. Her goodmother had been kind to her, welcoming her warmly at Yuletide and again at Easter, weeks when Margaret’s house in Perth would have echoed with her loneliness.

‘I should keep the lykewake, not a mere servant—that is what I meant,’ Margaret appeased. ‘Not that you should do it. You must ready the house for those who will come for the burial.’

Katherine relented when Margaret promised to wrap herself in two mantles, her coarse plaid one over the fine wool one her goodmother had given her at Christmas.

The ground in the frosty evening yard gave Margaret pause. It was rough and slippery, sleet washing over the frozen ruts in the packed earth. The hut was not far. Light from the lantern she carried already danced on the door of the small building. But she would last no longer than Katherine if she had wet feet. She took time to strap wooden pattens over her soft, worn shoes, then she gathered her skirts in hand to cross the expanse.

Margaret slowed as she approached the hut. When she had last seen Jack he had been bright-eyed and laughing with the prospect of a journey. Her burden of dread had lifted a little with the possibility that the months of waiting, of uncertainty, might be about to end, that she would learn what had delayed Roger. At least something was being done. But if Jack had discovered anything he had sent no word before his death. Margaret knew no more than before, and now had lost the person who had seen to Roger’s business in his absence—Jack had been his cousin’s factor, representing Roger at the port of Perth, arranging sales of the goods in the warehouses. He had also been a good friend to Margaret.

The shed was lopsided, made of mud and twigs, roofed with old thatch. When Margaret pulled at the door it stuck and she had to yank it, rattling the flimsy structure.

The maid jumped up with a cry. Shielding her eyes from the lantern’s bright glow, she cried, ‘Who comes here?’

‘It’s Margaret.’ She fumbled at the lantern shutters with frozen fingers.

‘I was feart you were an evil spirit,’ said Celia.

‘As I would have been,’ said Margaret, shutting the door. ‘That is why we are here, to keep the evil spirits from Jack’s departing soul. Though I think his soul must have passed before he came here.’ He had been found in Edinburgh three days earlier.

Celia hugged herself as a gust of wind from the open door blew out a candle.

‘It is a night for spirits,’ said Margaret.

‘Aye, it is.’ Celia lit the candle from another. ‘And a cold one.’ The mantle she wore looked warm—Katherine treated her servants well—but as Celia turned from the candle and shook out her skirt Margaret saw that it was damp from the rivulets that criss-crossed the packed earth floor.

Margaret held out the lantern. ‘Take yourself off to bed. I shall watch till dawn.’

‘You are kind, Dame Kerr, but my mistress told me to bide until sunrise.’ Celia settled back down in her chair in the corner, tucking a loose strand of dark hair into her cap and patting it primly. She was a tiny woman of an age with Margaret, not yet twenty, with a pale complexion and dark eyes under heavy brows. ‘I’ll not disturb your prayers.’

Celia answered only to her mistress, and even then she was very stubborn—a trait tiny people often had, it seemed to Margaret. She did not bother to argue with Celia. Neither did she intend to let the woman interfere with her farewell to Jack.

The sputtering candles burning at both ends of the shrouded corpse scented the air with beeswax but could not mask the other, stronger odour of decay. Dried herbs had been added to Jack’s shroud before it had been sewn shut, as was the custom, but they were no longer equal to the task.

Sewn shut. Margaret had only her brother Andrew’s terse description of Jack’s wounds—the slashed stomach and throat, related dispassionately. Not that Andrew had reason to sorrow, no more than for any man’s death. Her brother, a canon of Holyrood in Edinburgh, had brought Jack’s body home, but she doubted the two had ever spoken more than a few cordial words of greeting. It seemed to her that someone who had cared for Jack should witness his wounds. In fact, having had so little acquaintance with him, Andrew might even have made a mistake in identifying the body as Jack.

‘How can I know it is him?’ Margaret whispered as she stood over the shrouded figure.

‘Father Andrew said as much, Dame Kerr,’ said Celia.

Andrew had taken his vows before Margaret met Roger and his family. He had come to her wedding, where he would have met Jack, but she did not know of another time he might have seen him. A mistake was possible. Still, the prospect of opening the shroud filled her with dread.

If she had her mother’s gift of second sight she might spare herself this added grief of seeing Jack’s handsome face transformed by hideous death. But though Margaret looked much like her mother, she did not have her gift. She must deal with the world more directly. She must see the body.

‘Bring my sewing basket to me, Celia. Make sure that my scissors and a good needle are in it.’

She saw Celia’s uncertainty. ‘I pray you, go.’

‘Widow Sinclair will wonder why you want your sewing things.’

‘Tell her I must occupy my hands.’

Celia looked doubtful, but with a nod she departed.

Once alone, Margaret knelt beside the bier and bowed her head. She prayed that God would not take offence at what she was about to do. She prayed, too, for Jack’s soul. And, as always, that Roger was safe. ‘Bring him home to me, dear Lord.’

Celia returned with the basket.

‘I shall need the lantern,’ Margaret said. ‘You are free to cross back to the house if you like, though it will be dark.’

Celia shook her head. ‘You need someone to hold the light for you if you mean to take the stitches out neatly.’

‘It is best that no one knows of this but us.’

‘I don’t gossip.’ It was a statement, not a vow.

But Margaret was grateful. ‘God bless you, Celia.’

‘Where would it be best for me to stand?’

Margaret indicated a place near the head of the shroud. ‘I need see only his face.’

Silently, Celia took her position. Margaret was grateful the maid asked no more questions. And why should she? It was reasonable to have some small hope that Andrew had made a mistake.

The stitches at the top of the shroud were tiny and even. Margaret worked to keep her hand steady. There was no cause to let others know she had unwrapped the corpse. As she picked at the stitches in the dim light and the cold, her sight blurred and her fingers grew clumsy. Celia took the scissors and handed Margaret the lantern.

‘The lantern warmed my hands,’ Celia said. ‘If you hold it while I finish the tearing out, you will have warm fingers to sew.’

The lantern did warm Margaret’s hands. And when Celia stood back, proclaiming the stitches all undone, Margaret thought herself ready to look at Jack, then sew the shroud closed. She pulled back the cloth.

The sight of him shattered her. Jack’s blond lashes should rest on pale, high cheekbones. Instead they were almost invisible in the folds of bloated eyelids, cheeks. Yet she could not stop there. She tugged further at the shroud with stiff, impatient, careless fingers.

Celia grabbed her hands, but Margaret struggled to free herself. ‘I must see his wounds. I must see them.’

‘Let me do it,’ Celia said. ‘You will tear the shroud.’

His body was unrecognisable, the flesh discoloured, the wounds gaping perversions of the body’s form, obscenely intimate, exposing the inner maze of blood and tissue. The odour made Margaret gag. Why had she done this? This was not Jack, but his lifeless, bloated shell. She lifted the shroud to begin rewinding it, caught his right hand in a fold of the sheet. Something slipped from his hand—a small stone with a hole in the centre. She plucked it from the sheet, tucked it up the tight sleeve of her shift.

‘Shall we add more dried herbs?’ Celia asked quietly.

‘What does it matter?’

Silently they bent to their work in the candlelit shed, the wind moaning and pushing at the fragile hut, the rain drumming overhead.

That Jack’s good deed should come to this. Margaret remembered the day, just over a month past, when the plan had been hatched. She was at home in Perth, making use of a rare dry afternoon in March with a tolerable wind. Margaret and her servant had strung rope in the garden between two apple trees and hung out the bedding to air. She was hanging some of Roger’s clothes as well. Five months he had been gone, and the clothes in the chest smelled musty. If the airing did not help, she would add them to next week’s laundry. Margaret’s hands were soon stiff with the cold, but the sunshine cheered her.

An errand, she could not recall what, brought Jack to the house. He strode into the yard, graceful and twitching with energy like a fine horse, wearing his best clothes, a green tunic with a white shirt beneath, brown leggings, soft blue shoes with long points and matching felt hat. How fine he looked. And she could tell by his posturing that he knew it.

‘I am bidden to dine with Alan Fletcher.’ Jack looked smug. Alan was a wealthy and influential merchant in Perth, and Jack had ambitions. ‘I told him that I thought it high time I went in search of Roger. Master Fletcher has proposed a bit of business for me to do in Edinburgh and will provide the horse for the journey.’ A welcome offer. With no shipping from Berwick or Leith since the English had seized the ports the previous summer, the coffers were almost empty, and hiring a horse for such a journey was out of the question. Margaret needed her mare here.

Still, she had been puzzled. She had worried about Roger all this time, but all the while Jack had assured her Roger was not headstrong and he could take care of himself. ‘Why now?’

‘I did not want—God help us, Roger is home.’ Jack had just noticed the hanging clothes. ‘No wonder I confuse you.’

‘No, Roger is not home. Tell me more about your plan.’ Easter was upon them. Perhaps she might ride south with him to Roger’s mother in Dunfermline for the holy day.

But Jack said he must leave at once, and Margaret had much to do for the household before she could depart.

‘Why this haste?’ she asked.

‘Seize the opportunity.’ He had glanced round, then lifted her hand and kissed it. She pulled away from him, her face burning, and Jack grinned. ‘I cannot kiss my cousin?’

‘It is good you take such an interest in searching for Roger,’ she said rather more loudly than necessary, ‘but why search for him in Edinburgh? He would not ship from there.’ His purpose in setting out had been to find an alternative port now Berwick was in English hands. He had said he would begin with Dundee.

Jack still teased her with his eyes. ‘It was from Edinburgh he wrote to you. I may find a trace of him.’

It was true—she had received one letter from Roger in late November saying he would be home by Yuletide. The messenger had come from Edinburgh. ‘And if his trail leads you beyond Edinburgh, will Alan Fletcher approve your continuing with his horse?’ Her father and Fletcher had long ago fallen out over the man’s miserly ways. He would expect a full accounting from Jack.

‘Such a fuss! Do you not wish to find Roger?’

‘Sweet heaven, you know that is not why I ask.’

But it had been the way of arguments with Jack. Teasing, playful. He had been such a vital presence.

And now here he lay.

Margaret’s vigil began in tears. But as the hours slipped by her eyes dried, her sorrow replaced by a more selfish emotion. Fear. For herself, for Roger. Whoever had so savagely murdered Jack might be after Roger. After all, Jack’s business had been Roger’s business, Jack’s kin were Roger’s kin.

In the early morning Margaret’s brother, Father Andrew, relieved her at the watch. After Celia took her leave, Margaret watched Andrew for a sign that he noticed the shroud had been opened and resewn.

He knelt beside it, said a prayer, then settled on the stool Celia had vacated, rubbing his hands together. ‘I don’t need to tell you it’s a cold morn. You must have frozen in here all the night.’

‘I preferred that to warming the lyke. Jack is four days gone.’

‘Aye.’ Andrew ran his hands through the dark hair that curled round his tonsure. He could be handsome if his mouth did not have such a downward curve, if his deep brown eyes met one’s own more often.

Margaret was relieved he noticed nothing untoward. He had grown into such a humourless and judgmental man. She did not know whether she could have explained herself to his satisfaction. And she did not have the stomach for a sermon.

‘Be off with you,’ Andrew said. ‘Fergus awaits you in the house.’

Fergus was Margaret’s younger brother, whom she had left in Perth to see to the business and take care of her house. ‘How can that be? It is at least a day’s ride here.’

‘I sent word with a messenger from Edinburgh before I began the journey.’

‘It was good of you, Andrew.’ If anyone could empathise and in doing so cheer her, it would be Fergus. The brothers were perfect examples of the melancholic and the choleric—Andrew cold, Fergus hot, Andrew dark in mood and appearance, Fergus aglow in all things.

‘He can escort you home.’

‘Home? But I cannot leave at a time like this. Roger’s mother needs me.’

‘You have much to do in Perth. Find a new factor.’

‘Fergus has been doing the work since Jack left. He will continue.’

‘Uncle Thomas expects him in Aberdeen.’ Their father had arranged for Fergus to become secretary to his uncle, who had a fleet of merchant ships.

‘He will not go now.’ He could not. He must not. ‘He will be Roger’s factor.’

‘He is too young, Maggie. Younger even than you. He wants training,’ Andrew replied firmly.

Margaret felt her face growing hot. Fergus was young, seventeen. But Margaret had no money with which to pay a factor. ‘It is not for you to decide.’ The Church saw to all Andrew’s material needs. He knew nothing of what the merchants suffered with the English blocking the shipping. He could not possibly understand her situation.

Their eyes locked. Margaret prayed Andrew could not see how close she was to tears.

He was the first to look away. ‘Go, break your fast, Maggie. The burial is set for nones.’

Fleeing the hut, she slipped on the rutted ice, steadied herself against the wall. The morning was cold but dry. She stood a moment in the sharp air, letting it cool her burning cheeks. She must calm herself and think what to do.

Fergus jumped up from his seat by the fire circle to embrace Margaret.

‘I am so sorry, Maggie. Jack was a good friend to you.’

Fergus had thought Jack a difficult boss, ever finding fault, never praising, but he was aware how much Margaret had valued her husband’s cousin.

‘You should come back north with me,’ he continued. ‘Far as you can away from the English soldiers. Better yet, close up the house and come to Aberdeen. Aye, that’s best.’

It was good advice, but Margaret was not free to agree to it. ‘How would Roger find me?’ She fought tears, but they already streamed down her face. She was tired, hungry, frightened.

‘Oh, Maggie, I didn't mean to make you weep.’

But as he stood before her she saw that Fergus was truly a very young seventeen, not yet experienced enough to handle the responsibilities of a factor without guidance. He did need time with Uncle Thomas. She did not know how she was to manage without either Roger or Jack.

‘Have any ships come through while I’ve been away?’ she managed to ask.

‘Nay. Things are no better than when you left.’

Perhaps it did not matter. She was not likely to find a factor even had she the money to pay one. All the young men were slipping away to fight the English. Another good reason to tie Fergus to the business—he might yearn to be a soldier, but he would not desert her.

By late morning the sun shone on mud brittle with frost. Jack’s coffin was to be placed in one of the shallow winter graves until the earth thawed and he could be moved to a permanent grave. Standing in the doorway of her goodmother’s house, Margaret shivered and pulled her plaid mantle close about her, shifting from one foot to the other in an attempt to keep some feeling in her toes. She said good morrow to some neighbours and a priest from another parish, pressed the hands of an elderly goodwife in tears.

‘Dame Kerr.’ It was the hoarse voice of Jack’s father. Will Sinclair bowed his shrivelled head to her; the stench of stale wine lingered in his wake as he entered the house. Jack had hated his father, a drunkard who had begotten eight children on two wives, both of whom had died of his neglect. Then he had worked two daughters so hard they, too, had fallen with fevers. Being the youngest, Jack had been taken in by his aunt Katherine.

The mourners had been congregating without the house after expressing their sorrow to the family. There was no room for all of them within. Now they milled about, soberly greeting neighbours.

Margaret’s good mantle was suddenly placed on her shoulders. Fergus squeezed her shoulders and whispered, ‘No need for you to freeze, Maggie. Jack is on his own now, doing his own penance.’

‘What do you mean?’ Margaret asked rather sharply.

Fergus moved beside her. ‘Surely he has not become a saint in your mind now he’s dead? If ever there was a unsaintly man it was Jack with his schemes and his small lies, his flirtation with all females younger than mother. But no, I recall he even flirted with Mother for a time, until she had a damning dream about him.’

Margaret blushed at the memory.

‘Look at all the females in this crowd, eh?’

‘Aye,’ Margaret whispered.

‘Well?’ Fergus asked. ‘Why did you snap at me?’

‘I am tired, that is all. And I do mourn him, Fergus. He was a great help to me and a good man.’

‘Oh, aye, I know that. But he was a knave as well.’

‘I’m much better since you joined me. And warmer.’

‘Your goodmother should have thought of the mantle.’

Folk came up to speak with them, but Margaret responded with only half her attention. She kept looking for Roger’s arrival at the edge of the crowd. Had he heard about Jack’s death, he would have come. So he did not know. She would not let herself think of the other possibilities, that he was prevented from coming by illness or death.

The tolling bell stilled the voices, calling the mourners to the kirk. It kept the pall-bearers’ steps slow and steady. The priest’s incense spiced the wintry air.

In the kirk Margaret’s breath rose in frosty clouds as she prayed, steadying her goodmother beside her.

Once more the pall-bearers lifted Jack. Katherine straightened, shook her head at Margaret’s offer of support. For this last walk with her nephew she would be strong.

The hard clods of frozen earth dropping on the coffin sounded like hoof beats in the quiet kirkyard. How they must thunder within Jack’s coffin. Margaret shivered. Fergus put an arm round her.

It should have been Roger who comforted her.

2

The Crossing

Monday brought iron grey clouds, winds that found every crack in the walls, every loose shingle, and a chill that threatened to turn the rain to snow. It was not a day to travel. But Andrew, having wasted Sunday in Dunfermline, was determined to lose no more time in returning to Edinburgh, and Margaret was not about to be shaken off by his haste.

As she had walked back to the house from Jack’s grave on Saturday she had decided what she must do. Once the guests had departed she had urged Katherine to retire to her chamber, then gathered her brothers round the fire circle in the main room. She warned Andrew and Fergus to speak softly, that the elderly woman’s hearing was quite sharp.

‘What do you not wish her to hear?’ Fergus had asked, glancing uneasily at Andrew.

‘She will know on the morn, but for now I would have her sleep.’ Margaret took a deep breath. ‘I am accompanying Andrew to Edinburgh.’

‘What?’ Andrew came to attention.

‘I must find Roger.’

‘You don’t know when he was last there,’ Fergus said.

‘If you do not mean to support me, hold your tongue,’ Margaret snapped.

Andrew shook his head. ‘Edinburgh Castle is crowded with Edward Longshanks' soldiers, Maggie. The town is no place for a young woman.’

‘There is no other way. No one else will search for him with English soldiers about.’

‘Aye. Nor should you.’

‘You are on good terms with the English.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Andrew looked offended by the comment.

‘They let you have Jack’s body. You said you knew the sheriff.’

‘Do you?’ Fergus asked.

‘It is true I studied at Oxford with Sir Walter Huntercombe’s son. His son, mind you,’ Andrew said. ‘I cannot protect you, Maggie. And what will you do with Roger when you find him—demand that he come home?’

It was perhaps foolish to go, but it was better than what she had done so far—worry and pray. She was sick of it.

‘Where would you stay?’ Andrew demanded.

‘With Uncle Murdoch, at his inn.’

‘Heaven help you.’

‘I am decided.’

They had argued until they woke Katherine, who had heard enough by the time she came out of her chamber that she needed no explanation.

‘Of course you must go, Margaret,’ she said in the tone of one who suddenly understands. ‘That is how your mother’s prophecy will be fulfilled.’

‘You believe Mother’s vision?’ Margaret said.

‘Wise men and women go to her for advice. The Abbess of Elcho was happy to receive her. It means pilgrim offerings for their abbey.’

Margaret’s mother had withdrawn to Elcho Nunnery on the Tay after Margaret’s marriage. With her father’s blessing. Malcolm Kerr said his wife’s notoriety in the town made his fellow merchants uneasy, which was bad for trade.

When Margaret had last visited Elcho Nunnery her mother had told her of two visions of her daughter’s future. ‘I saw you standing over a table, studying maps with two men. One was giving you and the other orders, concerning a battle.’ Margaret had laughed at that. But her mother had solemnly continued. ‘On another day I saw you holding your baby daughter in your arms, your husband standing by your side, watching the true King of Scots ride into Edinburgh.’

Christiana MacFarlane, Margaret’s mother, had grown up on the north shore of Loch Long. Her family had been perplexed by her fasts and visions even as a child, and her parents undertook the difficult journey to St Andrews to pray at the shrine of the apostle for guidance. Christiana’s flux began while they were there, and her parents decided it was a sign she was to be wed and bear children. On their way back to Loch Long they stayed in Perth, where Malcolm Kerr first set eyes on her. He thought she had the face of an angel, but he did not know whether he liked the idea of marrying a angel. Or a saint. So he did not make his feelings known to her parents. A year later, when he understood that he had discarded all the marriageable women in Perth for not being the beautiful Christiana, he took himself off to Loch Long.

Christiana’s visions had ceased until Fergus was born, and then she began to inform neighbours of her dreams about them. Margaret had grown up with the unpleasant expectation that being her mother’s only daughter, she would very likely also have visions. When she showed no sign of doing so, she felt people wondered what imperfection cursed her.

‘I shall rely on my own strength in this,’ Margaret said to her goodmother. ‘On my own certainty that God guides me.’ She turned to her brothers. ‘Is that not better than relying on our mother’s pronouncements?’

Andrew did not answer, but sat staring into the fire.

Fergus looked uncertain. ‘I thought them strange visions at the time, but now that you’ve chosen to go to Edinburgh and feel so sure of it, I wonder. She might have foreseen all this.’

‘There,’ said Katherine, satisfied. ‘Now Margaret must get her sleep, so good night to you, Father Andrew, Fergus.’

This morning, Katherine paced about and hovered over Celia’s preparations—she insisted Margaret have a maid on the journey. Celia was a vain woman and tidy to the point of sinfulness—though Katherine claimed it to be an excellent virtue in a maid. Margaret was not pleased with her goodmother’s gift, but she knew it was meant kindly and so accepted Celia’s presence—for the time being.

Eventually the household began to calm and settle into the morning routine.

Then Andrew announced that his servant, Matthew, waited without with the horses. It was time to depart.

The widow threw back her head and pressed her palms together. ‘Blessed Mary, Mother of God, watch over them.’ She lowered her eyes to Celia. ‘Take care of Margaret. What you do for her, you do for me.’

Celia forced a smile. Margaret did not like the tension she sensed beneath the maid’s attempts to appear calm and wondered whether Celia was less pleased at the prospect than she had claimed the previous night, whether she had agreed to do this to please the widow. No doubt she was afraid. Faith, she would be wise to be fearful.

The scent of lavender water and the sour breath of one who has been weeping for days assailed Margaret as her goodmother gathered her in a farewell embrace. ‘Find our Roger, my dear. Let your mother’s vision of your future give you courage.’

Margaret pulled back far enough to look into her goodmother’s eyes.

The widow smiled through tears and hugged Margaret once more. ‘God go with you.’

‘May God watch o’er all of us,’ Margaret whispered.

Father Andrew loved his sister, but he did not want her in Edinburgh. So close, within a comfortable walk, sooner or later she would hear of his shame.

He had watched her this morning, rushing about, her red-gold hair loose, tumbling in long waves down her back, her freckles making her look too young to be a wife. She should not witness what the troubles had done to her fellow man. Neither should she endanger herself for a husband who so regularly disappeared.

Yet even Perth was not safe. King Edward had touched it, as he had touched so much of this land. Margaret was strong boned and strong willed. She would no doubt survive the disillusionment. In faith, he only angered her when he tried to guide her. Sooner or later Margaret would know anyway.

All through the ride to Inverkeithing the wind tore at Margaret’s hood. The rain soaked through two pairs of gloves, the outer pair made of leather.

But worse than the weather was her belated fear. Saturday night she had been so sure this was what she must do. But that clarity had abandoned her, replaced by the clamour of all she had heard about the cruelty of Edward Longshanks, his governors and soldiers. If they were behind Jack’s death, she did not know what justice she could hope for.

Her uncertainty about her husband haunted her too. Though Roger had been horrified by the slaughter in Berwick, she was uncertain what he might be willing to do in exchange for an English governor’s turning a blind eye as his ships approached Scotland. She would never have wondered but that one of his ships had arrived in Dundee in early autumn. Roger had proclaimed it a sign of a good captain, no more, and set his sights on Dundee as an alternative port, but folk had whispered at his long absences and the ease with which he had found a solution. And the longer Roger was away the more Margaret brooded on his contradictory behaviour. He had cursed Edward Longshanks when his army slaughtered the people of Berwick, but then he had subscribed to the Ragman Rolls, swearing his loyalty to the English king. He had been summoned to swear, it was true, but he was no one of importance, the King of England would not have wasted troops to pluck him from Perth if he had not gone. He need not have sworn loyalty to the murderer.

She glanced at Celia to see how she fared.

Katherine had not warned Margaret that Celia had little experience on horseback. The maid had required assistance this morning in mounting and staying astride. On the journey her hood had been blown back and her white headdress was askew. Her horse flicked his tail and danced. Celia fussed nervously with the reins. Despite all this, her expression was one of determination.

As they approached Inverkeithing Matthew spurred his horse and rode ahead for news of the ferry. The timing of the crossing was unpredictable in the stormy weather, and with the English occasionally shutting down the ferry. In a short while, the lad reappeared, sodden and flushed by the ride, shaking his head at Andrew’s shouted query. The news drew a curse from Margaret’s impatient brother.

‘Do we return to Dunfermline?’ Celia asked Margaret tremulously.

‘That would be foolhardy,’ Margaret said. ‘My brother will have arranged a room at a hostel near the ferry landing.’ He was nothing if not organised. ‘He knows how uncertain the crossings are in this season.’

‘But he did not plan for us.’

‘We may all four crowd in one room, Celia. It is the way of travellers. Matthew will wake early and take up watch on the ferry landing.’

Margaret was gey glad when they gained the inn yard, looking forward to dry clothes, a fire, and something warm to drink. Dismounting, she took the reins from Celia’s icy hands. Andrew’s servant, Matthew, assisted the maid in dismounting.

‘Forgive me for my awkwardness,’ Celia said to Margaret. ‘I shall improve.’

‘You sat your horse all the way—I applaud you,’ said Margaret. ‘Now—do you have Pater Noster beads?’

Celia shook her head.

‘I shall loan you mine. I want you to pray for God’s help in calming yourself while we cross in the morning. Your mount senses your fear. That is why he dances.’

‘I am not afeart.’

‘You cannot lie to a horse.’

Celia turned away, tidying her cap as best she could. It was not easy. The linen was limp and damp.

The hostel was small, and crowded because of the storm. Margaret did not see many of their fellow travellers, for Andrew hastened them into a private room, arranged by a letter from the Abbot of Dunfermline—the landings for the ferry had been carved from his lands, the ferry operated on his munificence. The four huddled round a smoky brazier, steaming in the welcome warmth.

Though she was already so deeply chilled that even changing into dry clothes did not abate her shivering, Margaret vowed to be first awake in the morning. She was disappointed in that. Sleep held off until just before dawn, and then she fell into a deep slumber from which Celia had to shake her awake. It added to Andrew’s already foul mood regarding the delayed crossing, and as he rode beside her to the landing he leaned over every few feet to urge her forward. ‘The ferry approaches.’ ‘Let us make haste.’ ‘You might have caused us to miss it.’

‘I did not even stop to break my fast,’ Margaret snapped finally. He was so impatient. He had a schedule and all must fall in line. No doubt he thought unless she strained forward in the saddle she was being too easy on the horse.

The stormy day afforded no view of Dalmeny on the far bank. A huddle of cloaked figures, some with carts, a few horsemen, stood on the ferry landing. Seagulls circled above them, their cries a bleak accompaniment to the wind and the crashing waves. The large ferry, oars lifted, bobbed on the choppy water of the firth. Soon she would be bobbing with it, colder yet than she was now. She thought back to her days seated before her goodmother’s hot fire working on the altar cloth and wondered when next she would be so warm and dry.

They dismounted at the edge of the crowd.

‘Matthew will tend your horse until we reach Dalmeny,’ Margaret said to Celia’s back.

The maid nodded, securing her hood over her cap. She seemed quite subdued this morning, and moved stiffly.

The vessel bumped against the dock, frightening some of the horses. A man on the shore called to those waiting on the landing to open a path for those disembarking, then he hurried forward to take the ropes, tie up the ferry. The passengers came off, a bedraggled dozen, stumbling on the solid earth. Two horses were led off by servants, one of the men wearing the evidence of a weak stomach on his mantle.

Margaret glanced round at her fellow passengers. There were several merchants, fat-bellied and well dressed—no ostentation in their garb, of course, no need to call attention to themselves in such times; an elderly couple, with a boy of ten or so who complained loudly that his boots were wet, all three wrapped in fine mantles held shut with silver brooches; two servants who accompanied the three; two clerics, both quite humble, one a lay priest in patched clothing, the other a Dominican friar; several young men with the stony expressions of soldiers—Scots, but as they were heading south perhaps hoping to join the English.

The friar stood beside Andrew. They had talked a little, as strangers do in such places, discussing the weather, the crossing. The friar’s hood was so wet it clung to his head, and it and the rest of his black habit was mud-stained and much mended. He was unshaven and encrusted with more dirt than the rain could rinse away.

‘You have journeyed far, Brother?’ Andrew said now.

‘What is far to one of my order, Father? Dominicans travel everywhere there are souls to save.’

One of the seven crew members stepped out on to the dock, eyed the waiting crowd, and shouted for attention—he had to shout to be heard above the wind, the crashing waves, the shrieking gulls.

‘All you who would board this ferry be ware. This is a treacherous water.’

One of those disembarking said to the friar as he passed, ‘Some might find the English soldiers at Dalmeny a greater danger than the sea.’

‘Soldiers at Dalmeny?’ a woman moaned.

Had she no sense? Of course the English would guard the ferry—they would be fools not to.

A man armed with a broadsword withdrew from the cluster waiting at the dock. Margaret had noted the weapon when the wind caught the man’s cloak. It had been covered quickly. Now one of the men who had disembarked bowed slightly towards the armed man and joined him. A murmur went through the crowd.

‘The man with the broadsword is William, the younger son of Malcolm Wallace,’ said Andrew, speaking softly. ‘He has been at St Andrews. Bishop Wishart and James the Steward have had words with him.’

Margaret followed the man’s progress through the small crowd, saw yet another man join him. It was a moment before she registered her surprise. ‘The Bishop of Glasgow and the Steward of Scotland? What would they want with a thief like William Wallace?’

‘Thief?’ Andrew looked down at Margaret, droplets of rain falling from the edge of his hood to his beaked nose. ‘You have confused him with someone else,’ he said.

Margaret thought it rewarding to know something Andrew did not for once. ‘He robbed a wealthy widow of Perth of food and ale. His slow companion was caught. He named his accomplice as William Wallace.’

Andrew grunted. ‘Young Wallace a thief? Foolish talk. I do not believe it.’

Margaret felt the friar’s eyes upon her. He studied her so closely she dropped her head, sorry to have spoken.

Fortunately, they had begun to board the ferry. Andrew and Matthew took charge of the party’s horses, coaxing them aboard and in to the enclosed space for beasts, where they could be restrained with harnesses. As they boarded, a wave caught the vessel, panicking Celia’s horse. The friar, leading his horse behind them, called out to the foot passengers to help. One grabbed the reins of the other horse in Matthew’s charge.

Margaret pushed through the crowd, climbed up onto the deck of the bucking vessel. ‘Matthew, let me have the reins while you cover his eyes.’ She took the bridle firmly in hand, talked to the horse, calming him as Matthew blindfolded him with a strip of cloth.

The cold rain stung Margaret’s face and the fierce wind that carried it tore at her breath. She was grateful to have both cloaks and held them close to shield her face, but she lost hold of them whenever a wave tossed the ferry and she was thrown against Celia’s horse. The beast had responded to her gentling murmurs and did not panic again, God be praised. Margaret glanced round to see how others fared. Celia stood beside the elderly woman and boy, all three hanging on to the side of a cart. She seemed to ride the rolling boat well. There was hope for her.

Turning the other way, Margaret found the friar’s eyes on her.

He nodded. ‘That was brave, what you did. You have a calming way with a horse.’

‘It is what was needed. I thank you for your concern.’

The friar bowed slightly. ‘Travellers help one another. You are kin to Father Andrew?’

‘His sister.’

‘He escorts you to some happy event?’

‘No, he does not.’ She turned away, not liking his interest. Friars were known to prey on women and to be the confidants of thieves. Fortunately, Andrew was making his way to her, balancing himself like quite the seaman. He looked grave.

‘You heard that there are soldiers at Dalmeny. Keep your eyes downcast, speak only to answer if necessary.’

‘What are you afraid I shall say? Tell me of what I should not speak.’

‘It is best to let me speak for you.’

He was so solemn he frightened her. ‘I shall be silent. But I cannot learn what is unsafe if you tell me nothing.’

‘Just do as I say. And if a horse frights while we are in their sight, let the men handle it.’

Andrew was angry she had come to the rescue of his servant? Sweet heaven, he could be such a fool. But Margaret was too uneasy now to argue or ask more questions.

Her wet, cold clothes clung to her. Doubt churned her stomach. She dreaded their arrival in Edinburgh—the soldiers, the occupied town, the uncertainty of Uncle Murdoch’s reception.

As a child in Perth she had been a favourite with her uncle, and he with her. He understood how much her mother’s fits frightened her and took the time no other adult had taken to explain that Christiana was seeing things that were occurring at another time, like a vivid memory, but in the future. All Margaret could see was that her mother would stop in mid-gesture and stare, sometimes shake her head and speak gibberish, sometimes laugh or weep, occasionally shout or scream. Murdoch Kerr had been living in Perth at the time. He told her that he for one thanked the Lord that his little Maggie was not to follow Christiana’s path.

It was because of that long-ago kindness that Margaret now expected her uncle’s cooperation in her quest. He would be proud of her taking action like this; he would commend her on being so much more practical than her mother. Andrew seemed compelled to remind her that she had not seen much of their uncle since his late wife’s family drove him away from Perth. Smuggling was fine when their kin were reaping the rewards, but once Murdoch’s wife was dead his reputation embarrassed them. Still, Margaret believed that Murdoch was a man constant in his affections.

‘Time will tell whether you can count on him, Maggie,’ Andrew had said just before shuttering the lantern last night. She blamed him on her wakefulness.

3

We Are Not So Fine

The road from Dalmeny led round Castle Hill to the West Port gate of Edinburgh. Andrew showed his abbot’s letter of protection, as he had when they disembarked. Margaret kept her eyes downcast and let Andrew answer the soldiers’ queries about her and Celia. She wondered whether all who came to the town must submit to this, if all townspeople who had business without the town faced such inquisitions at the portals. She felt like a sheep being tagged and herded from field to fold.

Once within the gate, Margaret lifted her eyes, curious to see the Grassmarket lacking stalls, tents, crowds, livestock. To her, Edinburgh had always meant fairs and feasts. This Edinburgh she had never seen. The knoll was rutted and pitted and puddled. In one corner a siege engine warped in the rain. The echoing emptiness seemed diminished and ugly. It felt as if the market had been reduced to its other function—the place of execution—yet even the gallows tilted drunkenly.

‘Where are the people?’

‘In their houses,’ said Andrew.

Celia stumbled as she craned her neck to gaze up at the battlements. ‘It is a dreary place.’

Margaret wished they had entered the town on the far end, away from the castle. Murdoch Kerr’s inn was at the bottom of High Street, just before Netherbow and the Leith road across which the burgh of Canongate began, in which Holyrood Abbey ruled. But Andrew had said the English might be suspicious if they skirted Edinburgh coming from Dalmeny, which was the direction they watched most carefully.

His anxiety heightened Celia’s and spread to her horse, who whinnied and danced. The town was eerily silent. Margaret imagined every head in every house glancing towards the horse’s whinny, though the wind and the rain might muffle much of their passing. She was glad when Matthew took the reins and steadied the animal, quieting it.

Many houses below the castle were damaged, some blackened and stinking of charred wood, others lacking doors or shutters. Bits of furniture lay strewn about the doorway of one of the burned houses. The front wall of another was stained with blood. A baby’s cry sent chills down Margaret’s back. This was no place for a child. Armed men moved about their business, as did some townsfolk, though Margaret saw no children and few women.

At St Giles’ Kirk she handed her horse’s reins to Matthew and invited Andrew to step within to say a prayer of thanksgiving for their arrival.

‘We are not yet at the inn. You can walk up to the kirk later,’ Andrew said with a shake of his cloak as if to remind her that he, too, was soaked to the skin. ‘Move on, Matthew.’

Margaret could walk here, true enough, if she could still stand once she felt some heat. And if she dared venture out again so soon.

A few hardy souls huddling beneath the eaves against the north wall of St Giles’ called out their wares as the four travellers passed, but otherwise the street was deserted.

Though it was mid-afternoon, none of the shop front counters had been unhooked from the houses to display goods. From the looks of them, Margaret guessed the shopfronts had not been opened for a while. A shutter off one of its hinges hung down over one of the shop fronts, on another house a counter hung askew and cracked. A pile of refuse rose too high to allow the neighbouring shop front to open. None of the doors stood ajar to invite custom.

In Perth and Dunfermline the shops had stayed closed for a time after the English had come through, but within a month or so trade had resumed, albeit modestly. Margaret had not considered how much worse it would be here, with the garrison in the castle above the town. She had not considered whether her uncle would have food for two more.

Andrew brought them to a halt just before the arch of Netherbow. Two tall, weather-beaten houses leaned slightly towards one another across an alley. A pole decorated with leaves projected above the ground-floor door of the house nearest Netherbow, letting passers-by know they could find wine and ale within.

‘Will there be soldiers in there?’ Celia asked.

‘No, they have been ordered to keep well away from this lot,’ said Andrew. He handed the reins of all four horses to Matthew. ‘I’ll ask Murdoch to have his groom help you down to Holyrood with the horses.’

The young man’s shoulders slumped.

‘Surely Matthew deserves a cup of ale first,’ Margaret said.

‘A tavern is no place for a cloistered lad,’ Andrew said.

‘Still, he needn’t go thirsty. I’ll ask Uncle to bring ale to the stable,’ Margaret said, and entered the tavern.

At first she welcomed its warmth, the still air, the roof shielding her from the incessant rain. But two or three deep breaths later, her body rejected the air and she began to